7th March: It is one
of the most important days in Bangladesh history. I was there and heard the
famous speech of the founding father Sheik Mujibur Rahman live. Me and my
chotomama (uncle) were in the Romna Park, not too far from the stage on the
other side of the road. We were young and excited. After the speech we walked
back to Bashabo where we used to live. Our house 'Heerajheel' was at the edge
of the city, there was nothing beyond, just a 'jheel' (marshland). We lived on
1st floor with a large varanda facing the road. Schools and colleges were
closed, not that we were in any mood to study, those were the days. We spent
most of our time in the varanda, talking politics. We had pictures of 'Mujib
Bhai' on our walls. We flew hand-made green, red and yellow flags on top of our
house, they were on every roof-top around.
25th March, Chotomama
decided to go back home. I took him to Kamlapur Rail Station to see him off.
That was the last Dhaka-Sylhet train to leave that night for next few months.
Don't know what time it was, we woke up from our sleep at the sound of fire
arms, mortar shells, machine guns etc. They attacked the whole city. One of the
main targets for Pak army was Rajarbagh Police line which was not too far from
us. Heavy fighting was going on there. People were screaming and shouting
everywhere, we could hear distant cries of people. Some people were running in
panic on our street shouting "run away, run away, they will burn the whole
city, they will kill us all, run for your life" Abba told us not to open
the door, and turn the lights off. Through the windows we could see balls of
fire in Rajarbagh and other places. We felt bullets were going passed our ears.
We saw neighbours pulling down the Bangladesh flags. So I made my way to the
roof in the dark and pulled down ours. Peeled off all the pictures of Sheikh
Mujib and burned them along with the flag. There are lots of heroes these days,
that was not a time to be hero!
26th March. Morning
broke with 'azan' from local mosques. Azan never sounded so reassuring. Slowly
people started to come out from their houses. There was a lot of confusion and
uncertainty. A total shock and despair on people's faces and in the air. No one
knew exactly what was going on. News of Sheik Muzib's arrest in the radio added
to the frustration. We felt doomed as a Bangali nation. Then came that
lightening voice of Major Zia form Chittagong Radio Station in the evening
"ami major zia bolchi" Oh what a feeling! Instantly we felt alive
again, not finished yet. Anyone who heard that voice that day would never
forget that feeling. Why, when and how he said it is for the politicians to
quarrel about. I can only talk about what I heard. I didn't hear any other
announcement or declaration. Indian radio also confirmed "Purbo Pakistane
grihojudhdho shuru hoyeche (civil war has started in East Pakistan)". We
all knew we are in for a long struggle which would turn our lives upside down,
if we survive.
The Exodus: in a day
or two when curfew was lifted, we saw a constant stream of people leaving the
city, thousands of them. Since Bashabo was on the edge of the city and was a
bit isolated, and still there was no military presence it was naturally a
popular exit route. Most of us only had a radio to connect to the outside
world. We started getting horrible news and stories of extreme brutality and
senseless massacre. We were worried about our relatives in the city. One of our
cousin sisters Runibubu moved to our house from Shukrabad with her family for
safety. The panic was in such level that one day a lot of us were chatting in
our varanda, sitting on the floor so that we wouldn't be seen from the road.
Suddenly there was a sound of a rickshaw tire burst. In a split second the
varanda was empty! Never thought we could move that fast!
It was soon felt it
won’t be wise to stay in Dhaka for too long. My father and some other relatives
decided to move to the village homes in Sylhet. But how to go, no one had any
idea; no train, bus or plane was running. One of my mom's cousins our Hasnat
mama, man with a golden heart, lived in Dhanmondi used to take such risk to
come all the way to Basabo to see us in those troubled times. He was
particularly at high risk as two of his younger brothers were in the army, one
of them was Captain Haroon (later General and Beer-Uttam) who revolted along
with Major Zia and other one was Lt. Farooq (later took early retirement as a
Colonel) who was in Pakistan.
Hasnat mama had a
Hindu tenant, who lived with her husband upstairs in his family home. She was
the daughter of Nirmal Chowdhury a very wealthy man, owner of tea-gardens, who
came to visit his daughter and got stuck in Dhaka. It was definitely a very
dangerous time for a Hindu wealthy man in Dhaka. When he heard from Hasnat mama
that we were planning to leave for Sylhet with a group of 7-8 family of
relatives, he came one day to our house to see if he could tag along. He had
such a rich aristocrat stature; we couldn’t picture him accompanying us. He
wanted to know about our plan, but we didn't have any plan that he would like.
Our plan was to take the most essentials and just set off on foot, and take any
means of transport available along the way. Bashabo to Tarabo, cross the river,
reach Norshindi, reach Bhoirob, reach Balaganj and reach each of our villages
form there, Question was how? Answer: somehow! It would take about 8-9 days. We
may get robbed even killed on the way. Had no plan for food or personal care.
When Nirmal Chowdhury heard our 'somehow-plan' he was horrified, couldn't
believe what he was hearing. He thought he would rather stay in Dhaka. He was
dead wrong, if he did go with us that would save his life for he was later
killed in Dhaka by Pak army.
One fine morning, in
early-mid April we started our long arduous journey and joined the masses
leaving the Dhaka. In our group we had about 7-8 families with around 25 people
including children. Only central Dhaka was under Army control, rest of the
country was still free. Even Bashabo was free. We didn’t see any army before we
left. We knew they will be coming soon and it will be impossible for us to get
out. My father was not prepared for the situation we were in. He did not
withdraw money anticipating the hard days ahead, now all the banks are closed
and no one knows when they will open again. But our dulabhai, Runibubu’s
husband he saw it coming and he was prepared. Both of them were extremely
dedicated to my dad. Runibubu seeing my dad stressed, whispered to him, "Mamu,
don’t worry, we have 20,000 rupees with us" - a lot of money for that time
indeed!
From Bashabo we took
some Rickshaw to take us as far as they would. After few miles the road ended.
The rickshaw wouldn’t go any further. So we walked the village path all the way
to Tarabo. We crossed the river by little ferry boats. As we suspected, Pak
army did come after us. Where we crossed the river in Tarabo, the very next day
Pak army shot and killed many people crossing the river. They were desperate to
stop the exodus and make everything look normal to the world. If we were late
by just one day, it could be our bodies floating in the river.
As we wanted to reach
Norshingdi before dark, we had to keep walking. We had some children who
couldn’t walk, they had to be carried. We only had enough food to last us a
day. Now I have to tell you about a Bangladesh we saw, that no one would see
ever again. People from nearby villages came to help us, they carried children,
our belongings and gave us food and water. They were poor people, they could
hardly afford to feed so many people but they did their best. They came with
gur-muri, moa, batasha, banana, daab whatever they had. We stopped by little
village shops along the way to buy sweets or snacks and the shop keepers were
so reluctant to take money. Such was the feeling of brotherhood among fellow
countrymen. Everyone wanted to help those people fleeing Dhaka.
We reached Norshingdi
in the late afternoon. Our elders went looking for a big Mohajoni boat to take
us to Bhoirob. Local people advised us to spend the night in Norshingdi as the
waterway towards Bhairab is notorious for ‘dakats’, not safe for us. But we
were desperate; at least a boat will be a shelter for us where we can rest,
plus we had no time to waste, we had to move on. My uncles found a boat, a huge
boat. A full size man could stand straight inside. There were 5-6 majhi-mallar
(boatmen). We all could fit right in. Ladies and children went inside and men
and boys on top of the ‘choi’. It was that strong.
As the boat started
to sail, sun was setting in the river. We could hear the Azan form the village
mosques. Suddenly, there was a desperate cry of a man form the banks of the
river, in sylheti. “O brothers, please take me in your boat, I want to go to Sylhet
too, please save my life, if you leave me they will kill me, please brother
please” Alarmed, we all looked at the caller, it was almost dark and from a
distance, he looked like Sheikh Mujib! White pajama-punjabi, mujib coat,
moustache, back brushed hair - the works. Did mujib escape? But Mujib wouldn’t
speak Sylheti! The fool made himself prime target to be killed. In other time
we wouldn’t take an unknown person on board in an unknown place. But that was a
desperate time, we just couldn’t ignore the man’s plea. Our elders decided to
take him on. As he boarded we wanted to know him. He claimed he was an Awami
League leader in Elephant Road area, “every third person in Elephant Road will
know me” he boasts. (after the war I found him in Elephant Road, but that is a
different story, he tried to avoid recognizing me, I found him occupying
few abandoned shops in Dhanmondi Hawkers Market under a banner of some
association with AL logo on it ).
The majhis (boatmen)
anchored the boat almost in the middle of the river Meghna, away from the
banks. We saw one by one, more and more big boats came and anchored around us.
We got very nervous. You can’t trust anyone, the majhis themselves could be
‘dacoits’. They know everyone fleeing Dhaka would have lot of cash and jewelleries.
Law and order broke down. There is no government, no authorities, nothing to
protect you. The majhis reassured us saying that the other boats are there to
protect us. It was a common practice for mutual protection in the middle of the
river Meghna at night. We were all tired and soon fell asleep.
We woke up at the
distant sound of azan. We were alive, nothing happened, our faith and trust in
ordinary people was not misplaced. The majhis were preparing for morning
prayers and to set off again. Sunrise in Megna from a boat, in the mist, no
sound except sound of water, ‘cholat, cholat’ unforgettable!
Our boat set sail
again, it was a very slow moving boat, perhaps we were going against the
current. For next few days we would spend our days on the roof of the boat
watching life go by. Occasionally we saw dead bodies floating by. They could be
Bangali or non-Bangali but they were human beings with loved ones who would be
looking for them dead or alive but will never find.
We had one police
constable in our group, Matin Mama, one of our distant relatives who, according
to him, escaped Rajarbagh carnage. We heard his heroic tale of the fight. Man
was ‘mister know it all’ hardly educated, but he regarded us young ones, bunch
of complete ignorant. He would ‘educate’ us at every opportunity he got. We
were quite fond of him and happy to play ignorant to keep it coming. He was a
constant source of entertainment for us! And there was that ‘Awami Neta’. He
knew everyone and everything political as if Mujib consulted him every day –
another source of entertainment!
Occasionally we would
stop at the riverside bazars to replenish our supplies. Same thing everywhere,
they were reluctant to take money. One ‘mishti’ seller gave us some roshogolla
free of charge.
After about 3 days of
sailing we could see Bhairab bridge at a distant, only a faint image. We were
so excited at the sight; it was like the feeling of the European immigrants
sailing to America, at the first sight of the Statue of Liberty. But we didn’t
know that it would take us another 3-4 days to get there. We keep going but the
bridge seemed to move away, like a mirage.
After another 3 days
or so we finally reached Bhairab. As our boat passed under the bridge it was
like a goal achieved. We all got off the boat. The ‘neta’ left us here. Our
elders went to plan the next phase of our journey and find some means of
transport.
Our elders came back
with good news. Motor-Launch service from Bhairab to Balaganj was still running.
We took the launch to reach Balaganj in a day. Where we were received very
warmly by our relatives living there. After a long 6-7 days we had a proper
meal with hot rice with meat & fish.
Balaganj was a small
riverside trading post (ganj bazar) by river Kushiara. People heard about the
army operation in Dhaka but had no idea about what to do but everyone wanted to
fight with whatever they had. They were preparing to fight an army with modern
arms and ammunitions with spears and machetes.
Next day our relatives
found us few small boats to take us to Badepasha, a small village by the river
Kushiara where we had a relative. My cousin sister’s father-in-law was a very
influential man there. We reached around evening. We sent someone from the
bazar to our relatives to tell them about our arrival. Within minutes our
in-laws came with an army of people to receive us and carry our stuff and small
children. They were over the moon to have so many guests form Dhaka which they
wouldn’t have in such a remote village. Again they threw a feast for us. Next
day they got us few more small boats to take us to our destination, Raigarh,
our village by a canal called ‘Kuragang’ The name suggests it was actually a
man-made irrigation canal through our ancestral agricultural lands, couple of
miles behind our village. It was a very relaxing and peaceful trip. We reached
the canal behind our village in the evening. We were so excited and relieved to
make to our destination alive, we hardly could wait to get off and get to our
‘Bari’ (ancestral home). In the villages they have an invisible communication
system. Somehow the news of our arrival reached home and our cousins, uncles,
aunts came to greet us. It was a wonderful home coming. We wasted no time to
jump into the ponds – we were free!!!
Life in the villages: Our
ancestors settled in the village Raigarh some 600 years ago after the defeat of Pathans to
the Mughals. Now divided into 4 ‘sharikans’ (families from same descend)
with 6 houses, it all became one big house and accommodated us all. And there
are more to come, people we never seen before, ghostly figures appearing from
the dark, people with dark and mysterious past, scaremongers and militants one
called ‘Kaua Latif’ another one ‘Jongi Mashuk’ and real ghosts of course!
From April to August 1971
we stayed largely in Raigarh. Compared to rest of the country we had a peaceful
time. I am sorry to say, that was the most amazing time I had in my life. I am
not being insensitive to those who suffered and lost loved ones, I am trying to
be truthful as I tell the story. Pak Army never came in Raigarh. I don’t know
why exactly, but if I give you an idea about the geographical character of our
village, may be it will provide some answer.
Raigarh is a very
hilly area. Every house was on top of a hill called ‘tila’. Every tila had
three sections. On the bottom of the tila there is always a pond or dighi. One
flight up the stairs (made of stones) is the mid-layer, where there is always a
Tongi (a multipurpose house shared by all) then another flight up the stairs is
the top of the hill where the family houses were. The original settlers
flattened the top of the hills, dug the middle part leaving a wall of earth
around called ‘dewar’ for privacy. The main residential houses were built in
the middle deep planes. In between the hills there were narrow, bendy and rough
walkways. Some parts of those walkways (locally called 'handi') were dark even
in daytime due to heavy vegetation. The village was only linked to the
Dhakadakhshin Bazar and the main trunk road by a 2 miles long narrow unpaved
village path, not suitable for heavy army vehicle. The village was not densely
populated as majority population were Hindus who migrated to India over the
years after 1947 partition.
No army takes
unnecessary risks without any serious cause. And the geography of Raigarh
perhaps was militarily a bit risky for them and it didn’t pose any serious
threat anyway. So when they came month later they just went through the main
road.
So we felt quite
safe. Our houses were spread out in three connected hills. Our tongi was
a large hall. It always housed a tutor (mastor) and a moulavi (miasab) for the
children of the house. Because of the sudden influx of guests they laid out
mass-beds where 8-10 people slept who are not closely related to the owners of
the house. We would pass our day playing chess, pasha (dosh-pochish), cards,
ludo and carom in the tongi.
In the late afternoon
we would all walk to the bazar in groups. Our uncles had business there. My
father and his cousins would meet their childhood friends. We would wonder
around, on our own or tag along with the elders. My uncle bought a large
abandoned Hindu house near the bazar; we would go there and fish in the pond.
There was a tea-stall, our favourite, called ‘cherag’s tea-stall. It was the
hub of all the political news and gossips. And the tea there was out of this
world. Never had better tea anywhere!
We spent a lot of
time in our uncle’s pharmacy. He was a pharmacist, but in the bazar and
surrounding villages he was the ‘doctor’, quite a good one and very popular. He
had a back room with all kinds of syrups to prepare medicines. We finished them
all! Chacha (uncle) knew but didn't say anything, got some more. In the front
room he would hold a durbar (court) with his friends. We enjoyed their chats –
all politics. That was not a time for anything else. But everyone had to be
careful not to say anything against Pakistan or the army in public.
One day an army jeep
came and stopped in front of my chacha’s pharmacy. Everyone became quite
alarmed. They asked people on the street for someone to guide them to a house
near the bazaar. Instantly two men sitting in my chacha’s pharmacy jumped into
the jeep and the jeep drove away. We looked at the disappearing jeep at awe.
That’s how ordinary people around us became collaborator. That’s the nature of
a civil war, your enemy could be in your house. Whole nation was divided in two
camps and unfortunately that divide still exists and getting wider day by day.
Luckily we did not hear anything happened to anyone in that house. But that
taught us how close our enemy within is. A slip of tongue can cost your life.
Our chacha was a cool one. Although he had that court every day we never seen
him making any comment. He would listen with eyes closed, chewing 'paan' and
puffing his cigarette - that’s old school!
On market day our
going to bazar was a big deal. We would go together with elders including the
tutor and the moulavi, along with our servants, still remember some of their
names; Surman, Suruz, Mayar bap, Monu etc. with their ‘Sikka-Bung’ (sorry, cant
translate) to carry back the shopping hanging from two ends of a bamboo stick
on their shoulder. There was no electricity. Whole bazar was lit by 'kupis'
(kerosene lamps). The atmosphere was surreal. You can see only things around
the 'kupi' with shopkeeper’s face glowing. We would sometime join the prayer at
the nearby mosque.
Our trip back was
even more surreal. There was no electricity; people would carry a hurricane
lantern or a flash light. Once your eyes get used to the dark you can see quite
far. In moonlit night it’s all different. If you have not walked in village
roads in a moonlit night, there is something missing in your life. As we were
returning home other people were coming from opposite direction. Almost
everyone would ask the price of the fish we bought. Often we had to get off the
road to let others get passed. One of our clever cousins would shout “bash
bash” meaning we are carrying bamboo, people from other side would get way off
the road to save themselves from the wiggling tips of the bamboo but there was
no bamboo of course!
Along the way we had
to pass our family graveyard. It’s a scary jungle complete with Banyan trees.
Invariably one will start a ghost story, believable real encounters such as
hearing footsteps while no one behind, white dog walking above the ground and
so on. When strange noise coming from the graveyard with tree trunks rubbing
each other and banyan fruits dropping on your head, you would believe anything,
and you want to believe! Believed or not, we wouldn't brave there alone at
night.
The village was so
beautiful at dark night. Only light were the orange light of the oil lamps
coming through the windows of the houses up the hill, down below it was the
fireflies everywhere, lots of them.
In next few weeks
more and more people were coming to take shelter in our house. Some related,
some not. All houses were full of people. There were some very interesting
characters. One of them reportedly killed a non-Bangali, he was so terrified,
even when he was sleeping if someone said the word ‘punjabi’ or ‘army’ he would
jump up. There were Dhaka University students who escaped the massacre with
stories to tell. Our moulavi (Helal moulavi) was a jolly good person. In our
heated debates he stayed calm and neutral. Moulavi was our connection with
Sylhet town. Because of his appearance it was safe for him to go to Sylhet. He
would comeback with info on the situation in the town. And there was that
tutor, always trying to outsmart us, he always pulled pranks on some of our
cousins and they did the same to him.
Other house in the
village also sheltered people who would come to our tongi for socialising. One
of them was called Kaua Latif, for his very dark complexion. He was an ‘ansar’
commander or something like that. He felt that it was his duty to start
military training for the young village boys and so he did. It didn't quite
catch on and he left the village to fight in the front. Later we learned he was
killed.
Every night there was
a congregation in our tongi, lit by only one lamp. All the men and boys of the
whole house would sit together and listened to the news programmes, Shadhin
Bangla Betar, Radio Pakistan, Akashbani, BBC and VOA. After all the news
programmes finished there would be chats on current affairs, rumours, social
issues, stories with endless supply of tea, snacks and tamak. Occasionally we
could hear the ‘voom’ sound of artillery far away. Some of us younger ones
would lightly kick the pillars supporting the roof to create a ‘voom’ to spark
a reaction in the nervous ones!
My fufa from doukhno
bari (south house) he was a good story teller, he was very knowledgeable of our
family history, local history and also stories of Assam i.e. Shillong,
Badarpur, Karimganj, Dibrugarh etc. – fascinating stories. We looked forward to
this nightly events.
Outside the tongi was
pitch dark. Out of this darkness some face would suddenly appear with worrying
news, like there are some suspicious movement of some unknown people in the
village, or army was seen heading this way and so on. One of them called Jongi
Mashuk, he never had any good news.
Slowly the effect of
the war was being felt; essential items were disappearing from the shops.
Things like oil, sugar, salt, flour and medicines were becoming scarce. Prices
were going up the roof. Smuggled Indian goods started appearing in the black
market, particularly cigarette and ‘biri’
One day a bad news
reached the bazaar, pak army is heading this way, this time it was real. We
heard that they were burning houses and shops along the way. The news set off a
panic in the bazaar. Every shop started shifting their goods elsewhere. My
chacha had emptied his pharmacy and moved his whole business home. There was
panic in the village too. Elders decided to send all the girls to our relatives
in remote village Badepasha where we stopped on our way from Dhaka. Young boys
of the houses would go hiding in the hills for the night. So we went up an
abandoned hill with thick forest. Normally we wouldn't dare to go there because
of poisonous snakes.
We could hear the gun
shots getting closer and smoke going up in the sky at a distance. We were
counting every moment wondering when they would come in the village, but they
didn't. They burned Jamidar Kali Prashanna (prominent Hindu landlord) houses in
their estate near the bazaar and caused some damage to the Mhahaprobhu Sri
Chaityanya’s ancestral home and temple before they moved on towards Sylhet
along the main road. Relieved, we came out of our hidings. It was dark in the
forest. As we were walking by some ghost hot-spots one of my village cousins
would call the ghosts by ‘mamu’ meaning uncle. It was a mechanism to conquer
fear in the dark; your uncle wouldn’t hurt you of course!
But now the once
thriving bazar is dead. People were too afraid of reopening their business.
Luckily it was Kathal (Jack-fruit) season. Our dadabari was full of Kathal
trees, planted by our forefathers, thanks to them. Kathals from every tree were
different and they were the best kathals you could have. We had breakfast with
Kathal and muri, lunch & dinner with kathal bichi curry and the peels of
the kathal fed the cows.
Weeks later Pak Army
ordered, on the radio, for all government officers to report to their work or
face dismissal. Trains were running sporadically as Muktibahini (freedom
fighters) were blowing up tracks and bridges. So they used to put few empty
goods-carriages in front of the engine. Limited PIA domestic flights from
Sylhet to Dhaka were also running under strict military control. My father and
uncles had to risk their lives to go back to Dhaka by train, we were not sure
if we would see them again.
Our Nanabari
(maternal grandfather’s house) was in Rankely another village about three miles
away. We visited them frequently as my mom was there most of the time. But the
house was on the main road, too exposed – so we didn’t stay there for too long.
Once, while we were staying there, a school friend of mine from Chandpur
suddenly arrived in our nanabari. He got the address from my dad in Dhaka and
somehow made his way to Rankely. We never knew who he was working for, the army
or the Muktibahini or he was just a fool. He said it was too dangerous for him
to stay in his village. But he posed a serious danger for us since he was a
non-sylheti in a sylheti village. Village people know everyone and which house
or family they belong to. When anyone enquired about him, we felt very
uncomfortable and alarmed. We wanted him to leave but couldn’t deny him shelter
either. Eventually he left one day and we all had a sigh of relief.
While we were in
Raigarh (dadabari) we had a bad news that our chutomama has been taken away by
the army. Some of his friends made bad remarks about members of the ‘peace committee’
passing by, who were also relatives from the same village. Normally they would
complain to the elders but that was a bad time, people turned against each
other. They went and complained to the army. The army came and caught some of
those boys, but my mama and other boys fled. A young army officer (Capt. or
Maj. Sharfaraz, later killed) came and told my elderly Nana that if chutomama
don’t surrender himself by next day they will have to take my Nana away. There
was another officer named Iftekher Zandal. However they were very respectful.
So chutomama surrendered. They were taken to Sylhet, tortured and released
after a week or so. They were all in very bad shape, at least they were alive.
On the day when Army raided my nanabari my brother Mustaq and I narrowly
escaped being taken by the Army as we left nanabari for Raigarh only two hours
before the raid.
Few times during the
liberation war I looked at the face of death eye to eye. It’s a miracle that I
am still alive. One day a lodger boy in our nanabari, called Mustafa and I were
walking along the main road to go to Raigarh, suddenly two Pakistani fighter
jets came out of nowhere flying very low towards us. We had only a fraction of
a second to take cover in a cave nearby. Seconds later we heard them firing and
dropping bombs somewhere.
Another day my
younger brother Mustaq (later Home Secretary of Bangladesh) and I were walking
along the same road to go from Rankeli to Raigarh, It was late afternoon, road
was empty and everything looked peaceful. It was a bendy road snaking through
the valleys between the hills. You can only see up to the bend ahead. As we
walked around a bend we suddenly found ourselves right in front of some Pak
soldiers with their machine guns pointed at us.
I realised, only thing
we could do was keeping cool. Anything else will cause sure death. I whispered
to my brother "keep walking, don’t run and don’t look at them". As we
kept walking towards them I could see they had couple of Bangali collaborators
with them. They were whispering to the soldiers. Obviously it was an ambush and
perhaps they told the soldiers that we were not the ones they were waiting for.
We were expecting that at least they would stop and question us. But they
didn’t do anything, just watching us as we passed them. It crossed my mind,
“are they going to shoot us from behind?” As we went around another bend and
felt they won’t be able to see us any more, we looked back to be sure, we
couldn’t see them, we ran, never looked back. That was a close call.
By July things
settled down a bit, bazaar opened again. We were able to go to Sylhet to visit
our relatives. In Dhaka muktibahini was running some guerrilla operations but
the army wanted to make things look normal at least in Dhaka. They opened some
colleges. My brother Mustaq was student of Dhaka College. Army asked students
to attend the college particularly children of government employees had to
attend to avoid severe consequences.
Back to Dhaka: My father asked us to
go back to Dhaka by plane. We managed to get the tickets for our whole family.
My chacha was a practical man, he asked us not to travel all in one plane, just
in case! But we were lucky to have managed to get tickets through one of our
uncle who used to work in the PIA office. It wasn’t easy. On the day of the
flight we were escorted into a bus by the army personnel. Once we arrived at
Sylhet airport we had to stand in line for body search. They also searched
everything we were carrying. I had a radio in my hand. A soldier shouted at me
“battery chamber kholo”. I did and he threw away all the batteries. There was a
young army officer with shaved had, he was looking at us as if he owned us.
Then we were escorted by soldiers to board the plane one by one. Once we
entered the plane the soldiers were telling us where to sit. Naturally we all
wanted to sit by the windows. As I tried to move to a window seat, a soldier
grabbed my shoulders and pushed me down in an aisle seat saying angrily “Yaha
baitho (sit here)”. As the plane started to move, a soldier with a gun sat at
the front facing the passengers, watching our every move. Move we did not, nor
did we have peanuts and drinks, no one went to toilets. There were no air
hostesses, all we had was this gunman ready to kill if anyone made a move. I
think there was another one at the back, but we did not turn our head to look.
That was the most horrifying 45 minutes flight. Plane landed at Tejgaon airport
in strict security. Whole airport was full of army. Dad received us and we went
back home to Bashabo after 4 months.
Mustaq started
attending the college. There was very poor attendance and there was not much of
teaching in the classes. One day Mustaq came home and told us that a hand
grenade was thrown into their classroom through the window. It did not explode.
I think it was not intended to explode and kill the fellow Bangali students.
Everyday bombs were exploding all over the city. It was far from normal. We
lived in a constant fear of death. We heard that the whole family of our two
uncles Capt. Haroon and Lt. Farook, their mother, older brother, sisters, a
brother-in law and two children were in army custody. They were later released
but their brother-in-law, Mr. Nurul Amin Khan, a very handsome young CSP
officer and DC of Barisal was taken in again and never returned. His wife, my
aunt never accepted the death as it was never confirmed, nor his body was ever
found.
Sometime we took city
bus to go to Gulistan or Newmarket. By the time the bus reached Newmarket most
of the passengers remained were Urdu-speaking. They were passengers for
Mohammadpur and Mirpur. We had to listen to their jokes about ‘Mukutlog’
(Muktibahini) and heroic tales about pak army’s successes of dealing with them,
laughing all the way.
Fall of Dacca: In next few months
Muktibahini intensified their operations and situation were deteriorating
again. One night the guerrillas bombed a collaborators house in Bashabo and
they escaped through our houses shouting ‘Joy Bangla’ and disappeared into the
jheel. Every night there was curfew anyway, by November they started issuing
curfew at the day time as well. Our movement became limited. They lifted the
curfew for a limited time every day and we would run to the Khilgaon Bazaar to
buy the essentials. Everything was in short supply. There was no fuel to cook
with. All we had was an electric heater to cook. Electricity and water supply
was very unreliable.
They also issued
blackout in the city. We covered all our doors and windows with layers of
newspapers. And ensured no trace of light can leak out as it can invite trouble
form the paramilitary, i.e. Razakars and Al-Badars as they were roaming the
streets at night. One night we heard footsteps and murmurs of a lot of people
on the road in front. We got up from our bed and looked through our windows
with horror.
We saw the
paramilitary (militia) were parading around a hundred men in their sleepwear
with their hands up, down the street. They were all murmuring prayers. After a
while they disappeared in the dark. We never knew what happened to them. Some
people said they have been released after detention because they broke the
curfew. That many people broke the curfew risking their lives in the middle of
the night - not convincing, so to me it still remains a mystery.
Another night we woke
up at banging noise on the door of the house opposite the road. The Razakars
(militia group formed by Jamat-e-Islam party to support pak army) were banging
on the door with their rifle and shouting to open the door. They forgot to cover
the ventilators and streaks of light were coming out through them. We could
hear the Razakars were accusing them for that. But that was only an excuse,
real motive was loot and rape. The neighbour had two stunningly beautiful
daughters between the age of 16-20. The Razakars demanded to search the house
for any so called anti-state activities. The owner had no choice but to open
the door otherwise they would have broken it down. They entered the house and
in the commotion some of them took the girls away while the others kept the
parents busy. Only when the razakars left, the mother realised that the girls
were missing. She went crazy, despite the curfew she came out on to the street
screaming “they took my daughters, I want my daughters, someone help me, is
there no one in this town to help me” - there was no one. No one responded to
that cry, though everyone in the whole neighbourhood was watching the whole
thing hiding in the dark. She started running around on the street, screaming
and went the way the razakars went and her scream faded away. After a while we
saw an army jeep came and stopped in front of the house and the mother and
daughters came out of the jeep and entered the house. The jeep drove away and
the whole neighbourhood was quiet again as if nothing happened. Later we
learned as she was chasing the Razakars, hearing her scream a kind army officer
on patrol drove his jeep to her to find out what happened and he rescued her
daughters and brought them home.
We had a cousin and
his family and an uncle who lived in another house behind ours, back to back,
separated only by a short wall. Even in the curfew we could go to each other’s
house over the wall. It was a great source of mutual support.
When Pak Army
realised they are about to lose the war to the Muktibahini, they wanted to drag
India into the war openly, although India was helping the Muktibahini in the
background. Surrendering to Muktibahini could be catastrophic since Muktibahini
was not a regular army and was not under any obligation to honour Geneva
Convention. So Pakistan launched pre-emptive air strikes on Indian airbases on
3 December. Naturally all-out war broke out between India and Pakistan. For
next few days India launched air strikes in Bangladesh, mainly in Dhaka. It was
our daytime entertainment. Everyone used to go up to the roof to watch the
dogfight of the fighter jets. We used to cheer the Indian jets. One day I heard
someone shouting in Urdu from the street below “ye tomhara bap ka plane hai
keya” meaning “are they your father’s planes?”
At night we have been
terrorized by a Pakistani plane dropping bombs on civilian neighbourhood. They
even dropped bombs on an orphanage killing children. Next day they would take
press photographers to the scene claiming it was done by the Indians. It was a
slow flying old Dakota cargo plane, not a fighter jet. Every night we heard the
sound of that ‘angel of death’ plane flying over us and the bombs going off, we
spent the night in the fear that the next bomb could be on us.
Soon it became
obvious that Pak Army was preparing for a fight in Bashabo. They were
installing heavy artillery in many places and on some rooftop as they were
anticipating that the Muktibahini will make their advance from this side of the
town. We felt it won’t be safe for us to stay in Bashabo. We had an uncle
who lived in Motijheel colony (government employee’s apartments) towards the
centre of the city. They also accompanied us in our trip to Sylhet in April. He
advised us to move to Motijheel colony and break into any abandoned apartment
as many people are doing the same. So one day when the curfew was lifted we
hurriedly got some rickshaw and moved to Motijheel and broke into an abandoned
apartment near our uncle.
Our aunt strongly
advised us never to look at a particular apartment in another building across.
She explained a vicious Bihari woman lives there who has inflicted terror in
the whole neighbourhood due to her connection with the army. She has helped
army to take away a lot of young man.
15th December. We
couldn’t sleep at the night, everyone knew its coming to an end, but didn’t
know how it will end and if we would live to see it. General Niazi declared he
would not surrender until Indian tanks rolls over his body, which meant he was
prepared to take us down with him. We could hear the gunfire all around. We
could see some razakars banging on some doors randomly. Most of the apartments
were empty. We were watching through the cracks of the door and were terrified
about them banging on our door next. We could see some kind of bonfire going on
in the State Bank (now Bangladesh Bank) Motijheel Commercial Area. Later we
learned they were burning paper currency.
16th December: Finally the day 16th
December arrived. The razakars melted away from the streets into the darkness.
We could hear a very faint ‘Joy Bangla’ cry coming from very far away. Slowly
it was getting closer and louder. Indian planes have been dropping leaflets all
over the city asking the Pak army units to surrender. Pak Army also started
broadcasting in the radio in Urdu “ek jaruri elan, surrender honewala hai,
hatiyar daal do” (we are about to surrender, give up your weapons). But people
were still too scared of coming out after living in terror for so long. Gun
fire was going on everywhere it was too dangerous out there. It was like Wild
Wild West. A lot of people got killed that day as they couldn’t contain their
joy and went onto the street to celebrate. Terrified Pak army units scattered
throughout the city were trying to get to the Race Course where surrender was
taking place. The only way they could get there was by racing through the
streets and firing their guns randomly and kill anyone trying to get close.
They knew very well that if they stop they will be brutally massacred by the
mob. My father strongly advised us not to go to the street and stay within the
colony compound.
But it was hard to
resist the temptation to peek out. We saw people coming from Motijheel
commercial area with stack full of burned Pakistani currency in their hands, pockets
and in lungi as much as they can carry. Because they were so tightly packed
they were not fully burned. A lot of it in the middle of the stack were intact.
Pak currency remained valid for quite some time until replaced by Bangladesh
currency printed in India.
I saw a crowd at the
gate of the compound just opposite the Motijheel Ideal School gate. I went to
see what’s going on. I made my way through the crowd and there it was. I saw a crowd at the gate of the compound just opposite
the Motijheel Ideal School gate. I went to see what’s going on. I made my way
through the crowd and there it was. The dead body of that vicious Bihari woman
lay on the ground. Muktijodhdhas from Motijheel colony did not waste any time
to take revenge for their friends who were her victims. They dragged her out of
her house in the early hours of the day and killed her. She had a cricket ball
size hole in the middle of her chest. It didn’t look like an ordinary gunshot;
they must have used some kind of heavy weapon to kill her.
On 17th
December my brother and I decided to join the crowd on the streets.
Muktijoddhas and Indian Army were roaming the city. There was constant sound of
celebratory gunfire. The Muktijoddhas were firing their automatic guns towards
the sky as people were cheering them. Indian soldiers were not firing at all.
People were greeting and hugging them. Most of us never seen any Sikh before,
particularly soldiers. Their turbans and the tied-up beard generated a lot of
interest.
We
walked towards Motijheel commercial area. As we reached in front of the
Modhumita Cinema Hall. Suddenly among the mayhem we heard a brush-fire on the
opposite side of the road. A lot of people ran on the other side where the
sound came from, we did too. Someone just killed a whole Bihari family who were
trying to escape from wherever they lived. Someone spotted them and killed them
all, adults and children.
As I am
telling my story I am trying to be truthful and not to exaggerate. But that
incident was so traumatic, because I never seen people being killed right
before my eyes, I had bad dreams about it many times. I still can see that one
particular little girl moving and hear her groaning in my head. As I was
describing it, reality, imagination and dream all got mixed up. I was thinking,
was it in my dream or from a horror movie? My Brother Mustaq was with me and he
remembers it all. His account of the incident is very vivid and accurate.
Mustaq
writes "The Bihari family of about 12 people including innocent looking 4
or 5 young girls were groaning in pain of bullet wound on the footpath. Then
one clean-shaven fair skin person in an open jeep arrived on the scene and
asked the onlookers for their consent to end the agony of the ill-fated family.
He then complied with a shining revolver and shot the dying persons, who
recoiled at each shot. We could not bear anymore and left the scene. Who knows
whether all such human tragedies still haunt the nation to this day...!?"
I
remember that 'clean-shaven fair skin man' mentioned by Mustaq. He was like
Indiana Jones, with similar outfit, he also had a straw hat on. Where did he
come from? He was unusually fair skinned for a Bangali, but he spoke in clear
Bangla. He didn't look like any other freedom fighters. He was too fashionable,
his jeep was spotless. His revolver was in shining silver colour. After
finishing off those young girls he drove off. That was a terrible time, no one
asked questions, no one was accountable to no one. That was the time when a lot
of Razakars, Al-Badars and collaborators became freedom fighters overnight.
We
walked from Shapla Chottor (present) towards Baitul Mukarram then High Court
then through Ramna Park to Elephant Road all the way to New Market. Roads were
full of people, Muktijoddhas, Indian Army, foreign journalists, gunshots,
smokes and commotions everywhere. Air was thick with smell of gunpowder. There
were empty bullet shells on the ground. We saw a smartly decorated white Jeep
or Land Rover with a colourful sign 'Crack Platoon' written all over it. It was
full of some smartly dressed urban armed guerrillas as if they are from a
Hollywood movie. Later we learned writer Jahanara Imam's son Rumi was one of
the members of the 'Crack Platoon' who got killed only days before the victory
day.
There
were a lot of dead bodies on the sidewalks and the middle islands of the
streets. We saw a Pakistani soldier’s dead body in Ramna Park with his right
palm cut off. Obviously someone took it as souvenir. We saw some mutilated dead
bodies in the middle aisle on the road between Balaka Cinema Hall and Dacca New
Market.
It was
a very dangerous time, anyone could kill anybody in impunity. For some people
it was an opportunity to settle old scores, take revenge and so on. Next few
days it was time for ordinary people to go home and start rebuilding their
life. There was a lot of uncertainty, how the new country will look like, wills
the Indian Army leave, will Sheikh Mujib return etc. but we were happy that
it’s over, we were free.
We went
back to Bashabo. We found out that a lot of boys from our neighbourhood who
went to the war or disappeared, whom we knew, never returned. One of the boys
who went to the war got caught. His decomposed body was found in the jheel, he
was tortured.
Shops
started opening. Non-Bangali owned shops remained closed, looted or occupied.
We were amazed to see the Indian Army soldiers were sopping like crazy. The
washing up soap ‘570’ was their favourite. They were buying anything western.
Foreign goods were banned in India and their products were inferior quality, we
were about to find out as Indian goods started appearing in the market to
disappoint us.
Some
kind of normalcy was returning. Mujib bhai returned from Pakistan. Indian Army
was withdrawn by Indira Gandhi at his request. There was a farewell ‘kuchkawaj’
(Army Tattoo) in Dacca Stadium. I was there, it was a very enjoyable show.
Months later Indira Gandhi came for a goodwill visit. A huge boat shaped stage
called ‘Indira Moncho’ was built where the children’s park is now in Racecourse
(now Sohrwardi Uddyan).
Law and
order was deteriorating. Armed robbery and hijacking was rampant. Sheikh Mujib
made a personal appeal to the Muktijoddhas to surrender their arms. There was
an arms surrender event near our house in Bashabo field. One of the Muktijoddha
groups surrendered their arms to Sheikh Moni on the day. Kader Siddiqui did the
same to Sheikh Mujib in Tangail. But many of them didn’t return their weapons and
got involved in crime or with underground anti-government groups. It was not
safe to be out after dark.
We soon moved to
Lalbagh as our father wanted us to be closer to the best educational
Institutions in Bangladesh, Dhaka University, Dhaka Medical College and
Engineering University (BUET)
Schools and Colleges
opened. I went back to Victoria College in Comilla. A lot of our classmates
were missing. Some returned to tell the war stories. One of my roommates showed
pictures of his brother in action. Travelling in Bangladesh was very difficult
as roads and bridges were destroyed. I took all day to go to Dhaka from Comilla
with 3-4 ferries in between. Going to Sylhet was even more difficult. Bhairab
Bridge was badly
damaged. We had to get off the train on this side of the bridge, walk down the
muddy banks and cross the river in small boats in a hurry to catch another
train on the other side for the remaining journey.
Law and
order situation was in steady decline. Different armed gangs were fighting each
other. One of our neighbourhood gang leaders Fahim was gunned down in his house
not too far from ours. Another day we heard a hand grenade gone off near our
house. It was so powerful the debris from the blast was falling on the tin roof
houses around making a hailstorm sound. People were rushing to the scene. I
went down too. Oh, what a horrible sight. Never seen anything like it. The
victim a young man in his twenties fell on the road. He was carrying a hand
grenade tied in his waist to kill someone which accidentally exploded. The
middle part of his body was completely blown away. His legs and upper part of
the body were not connected, yet he was still alive and talking as some people
were taking down some information from him. He had only minutes to live, but he
was talking as if nothing happened, no sign of pain - amazing.
For first time in our
life we were witnessing a terrible famine in 1974. I saw starving people dying,
one of them was an old frail man on the street not far from our house. He was
too weak to beg. Everyday newspapers printed pictures of people without food
and clothes. One of those pictures that hit the international media was a woman
trying to cover herself with fishing net. We had to stand in long line in front
of the ration dealers for everything essential from salt to cooking oil.
International food aid was pouring in. But a lot of the food was completely
unknown to people. We got canned ready to eat food and vegetables like canned
macaroni & cheese, Pasta in tomato sauce, cream of mushroom soup and so on.
They were all blend and distasteful. There were canned vegetables and fruits
like brussels sprout and mushrooms, beans, apricot and pears; we also got
pasta, spaghetti and noodles. Most people didn’t know what to do with them. The
common option was to boil them like rice and eat with daal or curries. And
there were strange kinds of rice, one of them, now I know, was Sushi rice from
Japan. They looked almost synthetic, people called it ‘tetron rice’. There was
peanut butter, golden syrup, chocolate spread, mayonnaise, marmite and so on
which were completely foreign to the population. All of these are very familiar
ordinary stuff for a lot of us now!
And that dreadful
‘attar ruti’. There wasn’t enough rice available and people were given atta
(wheat flour) instead of rice through ration dealers, and government was
encouraging people to eat ‘attar roti’. In one BTV drama the heroin (Shubarna
Mostapha) said to her poor fat lover “ruti khete parenna?”(Can’t you eat ruti)
– Message was clear!
The word ‘hijack’ was
introduced for first time in ordinary people’s vocabulary. There was hijacking
everyday particularly car hijack. Stripping off parked cars were common even in
broad daylight. People were too afraid to challenge because they could be armed.
Law enforcement agencies almost dysfunctional. In such lawlessness people
started taking law in their own hands. Throughout the city there were lynching
every day. The word ‘gonopituni’ was introduced by the newspapers. Ordinary
people were so frustrated and angry that they were prepared to kill anyone for
any alleged petty crime. I was in Motijheel CA in front of the American Express
building. Suddenly a mob gathered and started beating up a person, it was
alleged that he was trying to steal a tyre from a parked car. The young man was
on the ground trying to defend himself in vain. People were using whatever they
could find to hit him, sticks, bricks anything. One was trying to smash his
head. It was highly unlikely that he would survive. Perhaps many innocent died
in such lynching. People were not in the mood to ask questions or look for
proofs and witnesses. They needed somebody to take out their anger and
frustration. It was very dangerous for anyone who could be the next victim
easily.
Bhutto: Pak PM Z A Bhutto
came to visit Bangladesh in 1974. That was a strange situation. Nostalgia hit
peoples mind plus Anti-Indian sentiment started crystallizing for various
reasons in those early days and it was demonstrated by people lining the route
from Airport to the centre of the city in huge numbers chanting ‘Pakistan
Zindabad’. I was there in the crowd somewhere near the High Court. Mujib
Government was shocked to see such spontaneous warm public reception for the
man who was the main cause for their sufferings, that they issued ‘144 order’
banning people lining the route on the day Bhutto left.
Pending Chapters:
- Bakshal
- Face to face with Sheik Mujib
- Killing of Sheik Mujib and aftermath
- Killing of Khaled Musharraf
- Face to face with Zia
- Killing of Zia
- Killing of Monzur
- Ershad
